


You Know What I Like

by orphan_account



Category: Deep Purple (Band), Rock Music RPF
Genre: BACK AT IT AGAIN, Crack, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Male Slash, RPF, Slash, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, deep purple - Freeform, gillmore, mark ii era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24175099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Those who would say Ritchie Blackmore doesn’t enjoy physical contact, have obviously never seen him after he has been sated with sex.Ian knows better.
Relationships: Ritchie Blackmore/Ian Gillan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	You Know What I Like

**Author's Note:**

> *Aside* Just a final warning for real person slash. If you don't like that sorta thing then I advise you skip over this one.  
> Thanks :)

Those who would say Ritchie Blackmore doesn’t enjoy physical contact have obviously never seen him after he has been sated with sex. 

The thing that you need to understand is, Ritchie is every bit as controlling and moody after sex as he is before (or even during, if we’re being entirely honest) the act. The only difference is that, in this particular context, instead of using his petulant nature to ensure that his guitar is set up to his satisfaction, or that Ian touches him in _just_ the way he wants while they’re fucking, he uses it to ensure that he _will_ be cuddled to his heart’s fullest content.

Ritchie doesn’t really seem to mind what Ian’ hands are doing-whether they’re playing with his hair or tracing patterns on his arm or softly rubbing soothing circles on his stomach-but the second they stop, he’s certainly quick to express his annoyance, in his typical irate fashion. 

It’s something that amuses Ian to no end: the sight of the cool, bossy, _dark-and-mysterious_ Ritchie Blackmore, simply turning to jelly under his touch. Without fail, a soft, pleased little smile will settle on the guitarist’s face at the attention, only for him to frown and grunt at Ian like a spoiled kitten as soon as the caresses stop. 

Ian has even turned this trait of Ritchie’s into something of a (very risky) game, trying to see how much of a reaction he can get out of his favourite grumpy guitarist, simply by temporarily denying him his after-sexy-times cuddles. Although he’s very careful not to let him in on that particular secret. Knowing Ritchie, Ian doesn’t doubt for a second that the man would happily fire him from the band the second that he had realized he’d been played. 

But anyways—Ritchie’s first reactions are delightfully easy to draw out. 

You see, Ian has found that if you slowly still your hands, then you can be guaranteed that within a couple of seconds, a little frown will settle on the guitarist’s face (likely paired with an angry snarl of discontent). 

And if you can bear to keep your hands still for a moment longer, then you’ll find that there’s a decent chance that Ritchie will actually nuzzle into the touch with an insistent little whine (needy cat that he is). 

In the extreme case that you remove your hands entirely, Ritchie will just shift closer and closer until you can either move to accommodate him or choke on his stringy, raven hair. 

And then, there’s Ian’s undeniable favourite part of this scheme.

It should be noted that it doesn’t work every time-mostly because he has an awful tendency to give in all too quickly-but when it does, Ian’s treated to the most absurdly adorable sight that he can conceive of.

He has found (through admirable patience and much research) that if you can stand to ignore all of the frowning, growling, and incessant nuzzling, and if you can draw out Ritchie’s whining long enough, then after a while, the guitarist will simply grab your hand and push it firmly where he wants it.

And then Ritchie will order ( _the petulant bastard that he is_ ), if you are ever so fortunate: 

“Fucking pet me, you git.” 

**…**

_“Fucking pet me, you git.”_

The first time that Ian heard those words spoken out loud, he almost lost his cool-close to tears in muffling his laughter. He was only able to restrain himself from totally breaking with the knowledge that doing so would mean losing Ritchie’s trust forever.

So ever since that first time, it’s been one of Ian’s life goals to hear that _marvellous_ sentence again, preferably as many times as possible, and possibly even record it for posterity. Because Ian’s fairly certain that he’s the only human being to have ever heard those words being spoken ( _unless, of course, someone out there owns a talking cat_ ), and he knows that Roger, Jon, and Paicey would kill to witness a Goddamned _miracle_ such as this.

And so here he is, fighting a mischievous grin, his hand suddenly pausing mid-circle on Ritchie’s stomach.

There’s a little grunt and a growl, and then: 

“Don’t you fucking dare, Gillan.”

Ian fought back an amused snort. “Hm? Dare do what, Blackers?” His innocent tone has never worked on Ritchie, but it was worth a shot anyway. 

The guitarist wasn’t buying it. “I know what you’re trying to do, Gillan, and it won’t work.” Ritchie wriggled himself closer to the other man, pressing up against Ian in any spot he was able to reach. “Fucking get on with it, you great oaf.” He patted Ian’s hand. “Carry on.”

Ian willed his hand to stay still. “Well then, what are the magic words, Blackers?” 

For a moment there’s a flash of annoyed and impatient confusion on Ritchie’s face, but then the man just smirks smugly and simply answers: “ _Fuck you_.” 

And for a painful second, Ian allows himself to be disappointed-because it seems that he’s finally been found out and that he’ll never get to hear those private words even again-before he lets his carefree, playfulness take over. 

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind, Blackers.” Ian tuts.

“Well that’s exactly what you’re getting.” Ritchie huffed impatiently. He tapped again at Ian’s hand. “Now carry on. Or else.” 

Ian looked pointedly into Ritchie’s eyes for a moment, and after finding a mirrored cheerfulness in them, he wiggled his eyebrows slightly, his hand still resting, motionless, on the guitarist’s stomach. 

“Huh. Or else what?” 

And Ian can’t even honestly say that he’s disappointed when Ritchie lets out a frustrated growl and rolls over on top of him to pin him to the mattress.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again, and stay safe!


End file.
